


Bring the Dawn

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Child Soldiers, Corpse Desecration, Death, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Imprisonment, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 12:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Egil Ulfricsson has been sent as Windhelm's representative (hostage) to the court of High King Istlod as a thirteen-year-old. He finds the place too much, struggling to bite his tongue in the face of Imperial cruelty and corruption.But it is here the one called Dawn-Bringer is forged. Let the dawn come and banish the darkness.





	Bring the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, religious conflict, child violence and mentions of imprisonment, genocide and war crimes. Teen!Egil backstory for his time in Haafingar, goes from 4E193 to 196.

Istlod was a lean old wolf of a man, with rust-streaked grey hair and a keen gaze that belied his well-fed paunch. He slouched on the Wolf Throne, a monstrosity of gilded wood inlaid with rubies and cushioned with red velvet, and studied Egil with the intensity of a blacksmith choosing what he would forge from a particular ingot of metal. Used to the ancient austerity of the Palace of the Kings and the priestly simplicity of the Hall of the Vigilant, the Blue Palace was… garish. Jewels and gold and bright imported cloth wearied his eye, the mingled scents of perfume and incense and wine assaulted his nose, and the complex babble of a hundred competing noises made his ear cry for merciful silence. Yet abide he would here for a year or two or maybe three. They’d wanted easy-going, friendly Bjarni; they got serious, disinterested Egil instead.

The row of rotting heads on the road up from the rocks alone proved the corruption of the Empire and its unfitness to rule. Egil venerated Stendarr over Talos because he knew compassion was thin among his parents’ generation, survivors of the Great War, and it had been the God of Mercy who’d tempered Tiber Septim in his later years. The Thalmor prosecuted the White-Gold Concordat for their own cruel ends, so that made them the enemy in Egil’s eye. He’d learned long ago that not everyone could see as clearly as he did and that it was… tactless… to point out that bluntly. So he’d chosen silence and been repaid by being considered mature enough to dare Istlod’s court. He did miss Bjarni and Ralof, even his parents a little. But he was a man now, as proven by the ice wraith scars on his forearms, and it behoved him to serve Skyrim as he must.

“Ulfric thinks he is being clever,” Istlod finally said in a heavy voice where words fell from his lips like stones into a deep well. “Sending the younger son instead of his heir.”

If Istlod thought Bjarni was a certainty for the Throne of Ysgramor, he wasn’t as clever as Egil’s parents feared. Ulfric had made it clear to his sons that whoever inherited Eastmarch and Falkreath would depend not so much on birth order but on competency and the needs of both Holds when the time came. Even then, the Holdmoot might feel otherwise and decide Ralof, the upcoming Yrsarald or even Galmar’s niece Njada would be a better Jarl. In the west, they’d forgotten the old ways of the Nords.

“My father swore an oath,” Egil replied carefully.

“An oath as thin as his honour,” remarked a lean, hook-nosed Cyrod next to Istlod. “He has never sworn an oath to the Empire.”

“The High King is the embodiment of Skyrim’s loyalties,” Egil responded. “The High King takes oath for all of Skyrim and its Jarls.”

“How long did it take you to say that with a straight face?” sneered the Cyrod.

“Enough, Gracchus!” snapped Istlod. “We know Ulfric and Sigdrifa are as true as the spring wind but there are _protocols_ that must be followed in a Jarl’s court. One cannot accuse a Jarl’s son of lying, not without proof.”

Egil rested his hand where his mace normally hung. “I would gladly see this Gracchus try to prove his claims in the battle-circle, High King Istlod.”

For the first time since Egil’s entrance, Istlod smiled thinly. “As entertaining as it would be, you can’t challenge the military governor of Skyrim to a judicial duel.”

“Why, because the Empire would run out of candidates within a few months?” Egil asked without thinking.

One of Istlod’s Thanes, a handsome red-haired woman, stifled a laugh and even some of the lesser courtiers were hiding smiles. Perhaps all wasn’t lost in the Blue Palace.

“Perhaps we could make him the court jester,” Gracchus sneered. “I hear they’re fashionable in High Rock.”

Istlod sighed. “Egil, you are not to cast aspersions on the honour of the current military governor or any future candidates. If you will be part of my court, you will behave appropriately.”

He shifted in his throne. “As a courtier, you will have certain duties. I am given to understand you are trained as a Vigilant of Stendarr?”

“I am,” Egil confirmed.

“Good. For now, you will serve as Thane Bryling’s squire. She will teach you court etiquette and the duties of a nobleman to his liege.” _As your parents did not,_ his tone implied. “In a year or three you will be fit to serve as an officer in Haafingar’s Guard or the Legion, as is decided by myself as your High King. My Hold is beset by sea-raiders from the north and Forsworn barbarians from the west. You will have many chances to prove your courage and loyalty.”

Egil nodded. “So be it, High King Istlod.”

“You’re supposed to bow,” Istlod said quietly.

“In the east, our Jarls don’t require a bent back or a bent knee from their people,” Egil answered softly.

“You’re not in the east anymore.”

“Yes, I noticed. More gold than steel up here. Maybe you should buy less silks and train more-“

“Squire!” the handsome red-haired woman snapped crisply. “Mind your tongue!”

Egil choked back on the words. If he was loose-tongued here, what kind of disaster would have befallen Bjarni within the first five minutes?

“You’re obedient, at least.” Istlod smiled thinly once more. “Bryling, don’t bring him back here until he learns some basic manners. Ulfric has his torture and Sigdrifa her raising to explain their incivility; I will not allow it to fester in one of their offspring.”

“Yes, my King.” Bryling bowed elegantly. “Squire, with me.”

Egil followed his new mistress, seething inwardly. It was going to be a long few years.

…

“Gracchus is a petty time-server who got his position because his brother manipulated Madanach and Ulfric into colossal blunders during the Reach campaign,” Bryling said as she closed the door behind them. Like most of the buildings in Solitude, her house was made of stone with a slate roof, festooned with flowering plants and cloth banners. “Istlod has to be civil to him; so do the rest of us. That includes you now.”

“So I must endure insults about my honour and courage from some… some…?”

“You’ve killed your ice wraith; we Nords know what it means. But in Haafingar, under Imperial law, you’re not a true adult until somewhere between sixteen and eighteen.” Bryling shed her fur-trimmed woollen cape, leaving it on a chair carelessly.

Like the exterior, the interior of her home was luxurious, dark-stained oak cushioned with green wool and gleaming leather, the kind of furniture that was rare even in noble households back in the East. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting warriors, a couple of faded battle banners, and a gilded axe that had to be the symbol of her authority as Thane.

“So how must I serve you?” Egil asked carefully.

“Honestly? Run a few errands, train with a few guards, read the etiquette books and don’t make an idiot of yourself. The Thalmor Ambassador will probably question you in a few days. I hope you worship Stendarr, because I wouldn’t wish an extended stay at Northwatch Keep on anyone, even Gracchus.”

“I worship Stendarr,” Egil grated.

“Good.” There was a sympathetic expression on Bryling’s face. “The White-Gold Concordat isn’t meant to last forever, Egil. We need to lay low for a generation or two so we can rebuild. Humanity replenishes itself a lot faster than elves, after all.”

Egil bit back an automatic retort. He needed to return to his old habit of silence, even in the face of corruption and possibly evil. But gods, it would be hard.

Within a few weeks, his life had settled into a routine of training with the Haafingar Guard in the mornings, studying at the Bards College in the afternoon, and serving Bryling in the Blue Palace in the evening. Egil missed his family fiercely but they needed him here.

The Thalmor Ambassador was indisposed, so the Chief Justicar of Skyrim was summoned from Markarth to question Egil about his faith. Ondolemar was less… angular… than the other Altmer, his saffron eyes almost human, his build that of a warrior than a mage. He took Egil to the road over the arch in the harbour, looking down at the docks below.

“Not all of us are sadists who desire to rip Talos worship from the quivering flesh of the Nords,” Ondolemar said after they’d listened to the pounding of the waves against stone for a little while. “I prefer to think of myself as an educator helping my cousins achieve enlightenment.”

“But I bet you send those who don’t want your education to Northwatch Keep,” Egil challenged.

“No. Those I cannot save, I slay cleanly.” Ondolemar’s tone was sad and regretful. “But that won’t be your fate as you’re not a Talos worshipper.”

_Wonderful, a merciful Thalmor,_ Egil thought cynically.

Ondolemar was looking across the harbour to the bogs of Hjaalmarch. “I pulled your sister Laina from the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple. She was, even then, an extraordinary mage – my superior, to be honest. I have ever preferred the moods of steel to those of magic.”

Egil knew he had a sister who’d been believed dead for several years. His mother had returned from a parley with her former husband and told them what had happened and why. Bjarni had wanted to save his sister from the evil Imperials immediately so she could be a true Nord like them but Egil already understood from his mother’s words that it might be too late for her. So he mourned her as dead and went on with his life.

“Kind of you,” he said neutrally.

“Laina was the victim of a disastrous family who had fallen greatly from their ancestors,” Ondolemar continued, seemingly ignoring the comment. “She is an Evoker of the Synod and a veteran of the Legion – and she hasn’t yet come into the true depths of her power.”

So the Empire would have another weapon to wield. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I would like to think there is one member of the Kreathling royal family with more brains than zealotry or mad paranoia that isn’t your sister,” the Justicar said sardonically. “The next few years will be interesting and I know you, plus that brother of yours, will be at the heart of it.”

“That’s great coming from someone who wants to break the world,” Egil retorted, nettled.

“You are what… Fifteen?”

“Thirteen,” Egil said sullenly.

“When I was a youth, I fought against Jagar Tharn, the Imperial Simulacrum. A few decades later, I was fighting Daedra in the Oblivion Crisis. I have not endured these past two hundred and fifty years to be talked down by some wet-eared whelp with an attitude problem.” Ondolemar’s voice had sharpened like broken glass. “I’m _trying_ to save your life, you fool of a boy. Elenwen would have gleefully taken you to Northwatch Keep just to break your father anew. But she will hold off on my word.”

Egil blanched as he saw the deadly glint in Ondolemar’s eyes, the hand resting casually on his dagger.

“Bow your head. Bend your back. Bend the knee. Try _not_ to get yourself killed. Because even I can’t save you if you don’t learn the virtue of discretion.” Ondolemar turned back towards the city road. “We better return. Bryling will need her cupbearer for tonight and Gracchus promises to be especially grating.”

…

“You’ve worked another miracle, Bryling.” Istlod, half-drunk, lifted his cup in salute to the Thane. “You’ve tamed the bear cub.”

It had been over a year since he’d come to Haafingar and Egil had forced himself to follow Ondolemar’s command. Even Stendarr advised soft words and a soft walk where necessary.

But gods it was hard. Egil clung to the principles he’d been taught by Ralof and Carcette like a stone awash in the sea. He never lied. He never broke an oath. He did as he was told. He brooked no contact with the Daedra. He went and prayed to Stendarr daily.

“He tamed himself,” Bryling said modestly. “He’s a good lad.”

Gracchus, next to Istlod, snorted. “His parents are planning treason. We should execute them.”

“We can’t execute them without proof,” Istlod said with a long-suffering sigh. “Go back to your wine, Gracchus. We celebrate my Torygg’s return.”

Ah yes, Torygg, the future puppet-ruler of Skyrim. Egil had been sat next to the older adolescent, who ate and drank with the rarefied manners of a High Rock dandy. Everything was elaborately done and when the platters of meat were passed around, he had to be shown how to spear a slice or two with his belt-knife. How _had_ the Cyrods conquered the world if they couldn’t serve themselves at dinner?

“What are those scars on your forearms? I’ve seen many warriors of Skyrim bear them, but none as young as you,” Torygg asked after a mouthful of wine. Surilie Brothers, from the scent of it. Wasn’t bittersweet Alto good enough for him?

“I slew my ice wraith at the age of thirteen,” Egil explained, helping himself to some rabbit and grilled leeks. Even after a year, the rich foods of Istlod’s court turned his stomach, so he remained abstemious in his habits. “In the Old Holds, I could speak as a man in the Holdmoot and have my vote and sword counted in the records.”

“Ice wraith?” Torygg asked blankly.

“It is held in the old ways that the souls of winter-dead Nords – those of our race who have perished by ice and snow – linger on as ice wraiths, seeking the blood and warmth they once had,” Egil answered. “To prove themselves an adult, a true Nord must go into the winter and slay an ice wraith to return its soul to Kynareth for rebirth.”

“Something your mother never did,” noted Bryling quietly.

“There is the odd Nord who hasn’t undergone the rite.” Egil forced a wry smile on his lips. “Knowing the ice wraiths, they’d see my mother coming and fly in the other direction.”

“Is she so terrible a person?” Torygg drank some more wine. “You seem pleasant enough, if a bit stiff and uptight.”

“My mother is Sigdrifa Stormsword, daughter of Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath. My father is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, the only living Battle-Tongue in Skyrim. I am descended from the Shieldmaiden Sidgara, Culhecain of the ‘Kreath, and Felldir the Old of the Three Tongues – to name a few of my many illustrious ancestors.” Boasting about one’s ancestors was somewhat tacky when he hadn’t earned any honour of his own, but Egil figured Torygg knew even less of his less than mighty ancestors. Istlod’s line, and that before him, had been installed by the Empire in the tumultuous years of the Stormcrown Interregnum because they were pliant, not heroes.

Torygg’s gaze brightened. “I’ve heard of Sidgara. No one could ever explain what a Shieldmaiden was though.”

“They were an order of women warriors sworn to virginity and the sword in service of the gods. Most of them served Talos but there were those who worshipped Kynareth or Shor.” Egil drank some snowberry juice. “The Thalmor killed them during the Great War. Only my mother and Legate Primus Rikke survive of those who trained at Yngvild.”

“Good riddance to the lot of them,” Gracchus muttered.

“That was ill said,” Torygg told the Imperial governor softly. “No wonder there is unrest in Skyrim if you mock the people – _my_ people – so. The Empire exists because of Jonna’s Nords. Remember that.”

Well, Egil would be damned. Torygg had something resembling a spine.

Gracchus flushed as red as the wine. “Do you know who I am?”

“Someone who will be reassigned to a less demanding post,” Torygg said in the same soft, dangerous tone. “You do our enemy’s work by mocking my people. We could use someone who is a friend to us, not an enemy.”

Bryling steepled her fingers, looking pleased. “Well said, Prince Torygg. I’ve been saying that for years.”

“Go home and don’t come back until you’re sober,” Istlod ordered flatly.

Gracchus was drunk, he was arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. He rose and bowed himself out.

“Well, the air’s fresher at least,” Torygg said lightly. “So, Egil, tell me of these Tongues.”

There might be a bit of hope for Torygg yet.

…

“So the Emperor told me that we were supposed to worship Talos discreetly,” Torygg was saying as they climbed the hill to Mount Kilkreath. “Go underground, as it were. But… well… he honestly didn’t think that through. I personally think it was Arius’ fault. If he hadn’t rebelled, we might have been able to sign something better than the White-Gold Concordat.”

“My mother knew Arius. Said he was mad as a loon. And that was one of the more repeatable things she said,” Egil admitted.

“Most of the Aurelii have been a little cracked since their foremother Aurelia Northstar mantled Sheogorath,” Torygg agreed. “Irkand’s cold as ice in battle. You know that the mere mention of him coming after a necromancer has led many of them to sign with the College of Whispers? They call him Death’s Blade because he’s a servant of Arkay and he used to be a Blade assassin.”

“Rustem is one of the few people who scare my mother. He’s an assassin too, but of the Children of Satakal in Hammerfell.” Egil pushed aside some of the thistles. Torygg wanted to see the Word Wall of Mount Kilkreath and it was a good excuse to get out of Solitude for a day.

“Yes. He crucified Decimus Mede, the Imperial Heir before Akaviria,” Torygg confirmed with a grimace. “Not truly a great loss, honestly. Akaviria’s been raised as a warrior and one of her teachers was Legate Primus Rikke. I’ve even heard she can fight like a Shieldmaiden, sort of. Irkand taught her Blade fighting too. She wants to be a Companion of Jorrvaskr when she’s old enough to come to Skyrim.”

Torygg was an absolute goldmine of information that Egil knew his parents could use as a weapon. But to report it to them seemed… wrong. For whatever reason, the Prince trusted him and it would violate the testaments of Stendarr to betray that trust.

“Maybe she’ll tell the elves to take their White-Gold Concordat and shove it,” he said aloud.

“It’s possible.” Torygg sighed explosively. “I understand why the Emperor signed it, but he really didn’t know Nords or Redguards, did he?”

“Not at all.”

They reached the Word Wall, where the ancient script of the dragons was carved into a curved stone wall. “This stone commemorates fair Princess Yrsa who bewitched all of Tamriel with her grace and beauty,” Egil read, tracing his fingers over it.

“You can read Dragonish?” Torygg asked eagerly.

“My father’s a Tongue. To use the Thu’um, the Voice, you need to internalise the meaning of a Word in Dovahzul – Dragonish.” Egil sighed. “The Battle-Cry, the shout that sends our enemies fleeing, is a lesser Shout that was given to Nords by Kynareth.”

“You know so much about being a Nord,” Torygg said wistfully. “I was raised to be a good ruler but I never got to learn about being a Nord. My future wife Elisif, daughter of the Duke of Evermore, knows even less. Your parents taught you much.”

“It wasn’t my parents. Da used to be a Greybeard and Ma was a Shieldmaiden, so they were novice priests from a young age. It was my brother and mine’s arms master and my father’s huscarl who taught us how to be Nords.” Egil sat down against the Word Wall and Torygg joined him.

“You are my people and I must rule you well,” the auburn-haired prince said after they’d admired the view a fair bit. “The Empire truly is the best chance for Skyrim to survive, at least in the short term.”

“It isn’t just the loss of Talos. Shezarrines come and go, Keeper Carcette told me. The Empire taxes us and when we can’t pay in coin, they take our children to fight their wars. Skyrim’s bleeding out in blood and gold but the Imperials still call us barbarians.”

“I truly think the Thalmor want to break us as a race,” Torygg said quietly. “You should see what they’ve done to the Nords of Bruma.”

“One of my father’s men went there and found out,” Egil admitted. “Even if we could throw out the Dominion, there’s no saving the Nords of Bruma.”

“There’s one or two who haven’t been broken.” Torygg dug out a book from the packs they’d brought up here, containing their lunch and a few other things. “One of Cyrodiil’s greatest mages is a Nord from Bruma.”

“Laina South-Wind,” Egil said softly.

“Yes! I’m not surprised you’ve heard of her up here. She’s the last of the Aurelii and doesn’t seem cracked to me.” Torygg opened the book, titled _Wings Over Bruma: Dragon Cult Ruins of the Southern Jeralls_, and showed a fine woodprint of a tomb that could have come from almost anywhere in Skyrim. “Southfringe Sanctum. Laina claims that the Dragon Cult lived in northern Cyrodiil and persisted into the time of the Akaviri, when their remnants were incorporated into the Dragonguard that swore allegiance to Reman Cyrodiil.”

“Bruma used to be part of Skyrim, but Talos switched it for Falkreath to make the borders in line with the Jeralls,” Egil confirmed, intrigued in spite of himself. “So she wouldn’t be wrong.”

Whatever Laina was, Egil had to concede that she was an excellent scholar. The printer had included a portrait and biography of the author on the last page, citing that Laina was considered a master alchemist, enchanter and Cyrodiil’s greatest authority on pre-Septim Cyro-Nord culture. She was a beautiful woman clad in Synodic mage robes with feather-like tattoos on her hands and a scar on the left side of her face. “Do you know what the tattoos mean?” he asked.

“She worships Kyne, the Nord aspect of Kynareth,” Torygg answered immediately. “I heard a rumour she even learned magic from a witch of the Reach.”

“Doubt that. They _really_ don’t like Nords up there.” Egil sighed and looked up at the sky. “The Forsworn cursed my grandfather to never go to Sovngarde. To be honest, he’s as mad as Arius was.”

“I suppose with so many heroes, you have to get a few cracked ones as well.” Torygg sighed himself. “Lunch?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

…

“You’re trained as a Vigilant of Stendarr. Investigate Wolfskull Cave and come back to me.” Istlod waved a hand. “Now go.”

Egil went. But he took the sellsword Belrand, highly recommended by Thane Bryling, and a number of spell-scrolls pressed upon him by Torygg.

It was his third year in Haafingar, only seeing his parents every Moot, and Istlod had impressed him into the Hold guard as a Lieutenant. It didn’t mean anything because Aldis gave all the orders, which he got from Legate Primus Rikke, who got them from the military governor Snaetus Stilicho. Or Snottius or Snoutus, as the younger courtiers were inclined to call the unfortunately pig-nosed Niben-man.

The presence of skeletons guarding Wolfskull Cave proved the existence of necromancers. Egil allowed himself an evil curse, taught to him by Bjarni last Moot, and called Sun Fire to his hand. “We go in fast and quiet,” he told Belrand. “Junius was right.”

“Understood.” Belrand Conjured a wolf-spirit and Egil suppressed a shudder.

It went from not good to a whole lot worse. The coven was trying to summon Potema Septim, the Wolf Queen of Solitude. Egil relied on Sun Fire to clear out the undead and his blessed mace to do the rest while Belrand’s Familiar savaged the necromancers and his sword finished them off. But College of Whispers this lot was not.

“That’s that,” Belrand said with some satisfaction after they’d killed the chief ritualist. “Necromancers usually have some good loot.”

They did and Egil allowed Belrand to take the bulk of it. When the magical robes were removed, a faceted orb of milky agate rolled around in the bottom of the chest and Egil fished it out.

**_“A new hand touches the beacon. Listen, hear me and obey. A foul darkness has seeped into my temple, a darkness that you will destroy. Return my Beacon to Mount Kilkreath. And I will make you the instrument of my cleansing light.”_**

The voice was imperious, sounding like a more tuneful version of his mother.

“Gah!” Egil yelled, trying to throw the orb into the depths below. It had to be Meridia, the Daedric Prince. Everyone knew the statue of Meridia had been built by some ancient Reach King.

But the orb would not leave his hand.

“What’s that?” Belrand asked curiously.

“It’s a Daedric… artefact… glued… to… my… hand!” Egil yelled. “It wants to go to Mount Kilkreath!”

“So let’s take it there. It’s just down the hill.”

Given little choice, Egil did so, and when he placed the orb in its socket at the feet of Meridia, he was lifted skywards to look directly into a burst of white-gold light. Being given orders to purge _another_ necromancer in her shrine wasn’t pleasing but he agreed. He really didn’t want to become a wet stain on the ground.

This Malkoran was more competent than the necromancers at Wolfskull Cave but he was still one, however supplemented by unnatural shades drawn from the souls of bandits, Forsworn and missing soldiers, against two. Egil bashed his head in with a mace, drank a healing potion to curse his wounds, and stalked up to the altar of Meridia. “It’s done now!” he yelled. “Can I go?”

**_“Of course,”_** Meridia said. **_“Take Dawnbreaker in your hand so that I might cleanse it.”_**

Floating in the air _again_, this time seeing lights as far away as High Hrothgar, reminded Egil that humans weren’t meant to fly. He was pretty sure he wet himself this time around. The first time, he was in too much shock.

**_“It is cleansed,”_** the orb of light that was Meridia said gladly. **_“You will cast My light into dark places, Egil. But I would offer you the position of Champion, for we are much alike in our love of certitude, justice and the light.”_**

“I worship Stendarr,” Egil said weakly.

**_“He does His best, but like the other Aedra, He’s limited,”_** Meridia countered gently. **_“If it came down to it, which would He choose – the stability of the Empire or the light of a new dawn breaking over Skyrim? I’m not averse to lending secular aid to My Champion when necessary.”_**

He remembered his discussions with Keeper Carcette about the justice of the Stormcloak movement. She’d said that the Daedra thrived in times of chaos, even that created by righteous revolution, and that was why it was best to support a stable government, even if it wasn’t the best.

**_“You need not decide immediately. While Dawnbreaker is by your side, you may talk to Me whenever you wish.”_** There was a gentleness in Meridia’s voice. **_“But if you decide aye, I will give you soldiers that can win wars and a steed that never tires. Time may come when you need that.”_**

She returned him to the ground. **_“A single candle can banish the darkness. Remember that, young Egil.”_**

When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground once more. It was a long thoughtful walk back to Solitude with Belrand, Dawnbreaker hanging from his hip.

…

“When I am King, you’ll need to come back to Solitude,” Torygg said with a smile as he clasped Egil’s forearms. “There is much that needs changing.”

Egil returned the gesture. “Please listen to my father. I’ll try to convince him to talk _to_ people instead of _at_ them.”

At seventeen, Egil was finally free to return home as a boon from Torygg on his wedding day. The bride Elisif was a lovely girl, none too bright but well-meaning and gentle. She’d treated Egil with honour for being the Dawn-Bringer, as the Reacher Nords called the bearer of Dawnbreaker. Maybe the western Reachfolk were more civilised than their eastern brethren.

“I will,” Torygg promised. “You better go before my father finds something else for you to do. He isn’t happy you’re leaving.”

“Next time, I’ll send Bjarni. When he’s done drinking the cellars dry and eating the kitchens bare, your father will be only too happy to leave us in Eastmarch,” Egil grinned.

“He can’t be that bad!” Torygg said as Egil leapt into the ferry.

“Oh, he is.” Egil raised his hand. “Gods with you, Torygg.”

“And you, Egil.”

They sailed into the dawn, the light splintering white-gold across the mountains that framed Skyrim like a necklace. Egil was not blinded by light, a side effect of bearing Dawnbreaker.

For the first time in four years, he began to relax. He was going home with news that Torygg might be more inclined to Stormcloak beliefs than his parents feared. No more guarding his tongue. No more doing drudge-work in killing necromancers, bandits and worse, missions he was beginning to wonder if they were meant to kill him. If so, it hadn’t succeeded. He would be returning home as an experienced cavalryman, commander and the bearer of a powerful Daedric artefact.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be resolved. In the light of the dawn, Egil dared to hope.


End file.
